Standing Ovation
by Oct0ber
Summary: Our favorite couple has an evening out at the symphony. You know you're going to love it.
1. Chapter 1

It was the evening of the Buenos Aires Philharmonic Orchestra performance featuring Jonathon Cade—on an international tour and performing in Buenos Aires for a performance cycle of two weeks. Hannibal had of course purchased tickets, top quality front and center, and had been lavishing praise on the orchestra all week—in particular, that of the star violinist, Jonathon Cade, ranked among if not _the_ best concert violinist in the world. And tonight was the night.

Clarice looked at her watch—nearly 04:00. It would be time to get ready soon. _Damn._

"… and I had the pleasure of seeing Jonathon performing "Chaconne" from Bach's Partita No. 2 in D minor in Vienna, quite exquisite…" He cocked his head to the side. _Was his Starling even listening?_ He glanced at her, sitting at the kitchen table, absentmindedly toying with the spoon in her coffee that by now had gone cold.

" _Claaarrricccee…_ "

Jolted from her thoughts, she caught the maroon eyes of Dr. Hannibal Lecter, clad in a grey v-neck sweater, sleeves rolled up over the cutting board as he tended to the preparations for their dinner. "Yes, sorry I'm listening... Austria… very good performance," she smiled.

He stared for a beat, perhaps a moment too long for her liking. Just the faintest hint of a spark flew behind his eyes. She had aroused his curiosity, and that wasn't necessarily a good thing in this particular instance.

"Mmm, I see." He placed the butcher's knife down on the table, then bent over crossing his arms, resting his elbows on the counter. "Pray tell Clarice, what _is_ on your mind? I would loathe to think that a cold cup of coffee could hold your interest more than I." He flashed her a playful smile.

And here it was. She'd had all week to approach the issue on her own terms but didn't. Silently she cursed herself for not doing so sooner. _I mean it's not a big deal, really. It was a long time ago—several years in fact—and besides, Hannibal has dated numerous beautiful women in the past. So what does it matter?_ It didn't, she decided, but then again—he was quite frankly the most egotistical man she had ever known, if only by a small margin to… _damnit._ _Say something… don't look nervous._

"Hannibal," she paused to look away before continuing, "I know you've been looking forward to tonight's event, but—I think I'm just really not in the mood for the symphony tonight. Do you mind if I sit this one out?"

He watched her as she spoke, eyes around the room, trying desperately hard not to fidget—and failing. There was something she was withholding from him, yes. Curious indeed.

"Are you feeling ill?"

"No I'm fine, just not in in the mood for the symphony."

"So you've said." He paused and held her gaze. It wasn't long before her eyes left his and found something else to focus on. "Well then, _Clarice_ , what is it?"

He used the same tone as he had so long ago in the dungeon—intentionally, she knew, to put her off. He wasn't going to let it go, no, he was toying with her. She met his gaze, this time with resolve and maybe a hint of fire.

"Alright… alright. The reason I don't want to go is because I know one of the performers from back in DC, and I don't want to risk being recognized and put our safety in jeopardy. It's a long-shot, I know, but to me it's just not worth the risk and I'd just rather not go."

He analyzed her body language and determined she was telling the truth— or at least a _partial_ truth.

"Ah, and which of the performers do you know?" _There's that nervous energy again._ His curiosity was peaked, he had to admit, but her evasiveness and obvious reluctance to answer his questions was beginning to invoke his annoyance.

"Jon, we met in DC while he was performing with the National Symphony Orchestra. We haven't been in touch for a few years now but he would recognize me if he saw me."

She could se the sparks dancing with that revelation. He was not going to let it go, but she was determined not to give away any more information than was necessary. She was a modest person, and a private person, and while she and Hannibal had shared many things over their last two years together, she had seen no reason to bring this to light. It didn't matter. _So if it doesn't matter then why are you making such a big deal of not telling him?_ She shook away the thought.

"Jon." He blinked. "As in Jonathon Cade."

"Yes."

"You consider yourself a personal acquaintance of Jonathon Cade, and felt no reason to mention this while we've discussed the symphony at length this passed week?" Now he _was_ annoyed.

"Like I said, we were friends, but it's been several years since we've spoken—"

"What constitutes _friends_ , Clarice?"

She paused _. Did he just interrupt me?_ Now it was her turn to be annoyed.

When she did not continue, he raised his eyebrows imploring her to go on. The sparks had turned to ice. She was testing his patience now, she knew. "Fine. I'll tell you the story." A softening in his eyes—at last, the moment of truth.

"I had taken the metro into downtown DC... I rarely take the metro, but for whatever reason I did that day. As I exited the train getting off at my station, I hear the most hauntingly beautiful music, and as I'm walking toward it I see this normal-looking guy playing his heart out on the violin. And everyone in the subway is just going about their business, not even noticing. I couldn't believe that no one seemed to be touched by this music, but I was and so I stayed. He played two more songs, and when he finished I went over to talk to him and… ask if he wanted to get a coffee."

Hannibal's expression—much to her consternation—was unreadable, yet she continued.

"I found out over coffee who he actually was, that he was playing with the National Symphony Orchestra, and the Washington Post was writing a piece on an experiment where they were having him pose as a street musician and play extremely intricate classical pieces, just to see if anyone would stop and recognize the art—the beauty in it. And it turns out, I was the only one."

"Hmm. Sadly it's not surprising given the lack of taste in this current generation. Fast food and cheap entertainment, the hustle and bustle of their little, low-ceiling lives," he mused. "But you, Clarice, have always had taste, even if not always the means to pursue it, and I have so enjoyed expanding your horizons. Your evolution continues to exceed even my highest expectations."

She could almost feel the heat in his eyes— _almost_ , and in an instant the ice returned.

"It's getting late, Clarice, so let me save us both some time, hmm? You and _Jon_ weren't merely _friends_ ; you were lovers, at least for a time. Am I correct?"

Masking her shock at such a blunt statement of truth, she continued. "We dated for five months and then I ended it. Jon was incredibly talented and—fun, if I'm being honest, but also extremely self-centered, egotistical, and well—a diva, for lack of a better word. Not attractive qualities." _Sigh._ "I knew from the beginning it was going to be temporary, but not all relationships are meant to last forever. It was fun, and I don't regret it."

Hannibal's expression a stone wall.

"I wasn't lying when I said we were friends. After things ended, we did keep in touch over the years, but it was never sexual past that point." She looked down at her lap, exhaled, and looked into his eyes. "Hannibal, I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. Honestly I'm not even sure why I didn't."

"I see. You're ' _sorry'_ now, as opposed to ten minutes ago when I recall you, looking everywhere around the room except at me, while informing me of _someone_ in the orchestra that might recognize you. Do try again, Clarice."

His words stung, but even worse he had a right to be angry—she'd let him go on about the orchestra and Jonathon Cade—world-class violinist all week without saying a word. She deserved what she got.

"Tell me, did you truly feel that I would be insecure when confronted with the knowledge of your past exploits? That I would be overcome with jealousy? Hardly."

 _Exploits!? Is he serious right now?_ That did it. "You tell me, Hannibal, _you're_ the one who's upset." She paused, remembering that she was in fact on the _wrong_ side of the argument before continuing. "And I know that is my doing, and I am sorry, but frankly, I guess I didn't _want_ to know how you would feel. I know of your past—relationships—and I'm not jealous of those women, so no I don't expect you to feel jealousy toward Jon—Jonathon," she corrected.

"You are a beautiful woman Clarice, both outside and in. It would be ludicrous to think that you would not have engaged in past sexual relationships before me." He paused, considering his words before continuing. "I have never lied to you Clarice, nor have I attempted to conceal any aspects of my past. As my partner, I expect the same. No subject should be off limits between us, Clarice—no matter how uncomfortable they may be."

He spoke the truth. "I guess I just didn't want to bring the ghosts of the past into our life here. But that doesn't excuse it, and I am sorry Hannibal."

He was motionless, staring intently but the ice had begun to thaw she noticed. She got up from her chair and slowly walked to the other side—his side—of the counter as he turned to face her. "You should know," she smiled and looked up at him, "if it isn't evident enough, that I want you, only you… and I would much rather have you, here, now, than go to the stupid symphony."

She tentatively touched his forearm, testing the waters, and when no resistance was met, she moved her hands up his arms to his shoulders and down over his chest, feeling the muscle beneath the fabric. "I am sorry." She said, looking for some hint of emotion in his eyes, "Please Hannibal, tell me what I can do to make things right?"

Unable to read his temperament, she took a gamble. She kissed him then, slowly, testing his response. He offered none, and just when she thought she had made a grave error, his arms encircled her waist and he returned her kiss with fervor. She could feel the heat rising, the beginning stages of arousal. She could never tire of feeling his mouth against hers, his tongue across her lips, nipping, teasing, and causing her to illicit a sound that was part moan, part sigh of relief.

His hands moved slowly from her waist to cup her buttocks and suddenly lifted her onto the counter, never breaking their kiss. Her legs on either side of him, pulling him closer to her, and then—just as things were getting truly heated, he broke the kiss. He glanced at the clock on the wall, and just as casually as if they'd been discussing the weather…

"Oh, look at the time, it's getting late and you must be getting ready for this evening." His hands were still placed on her thighs from their— _interaction_ —moments ago. He patted her thigh, raised his eyebrows and shot her a devilish grin before walking away, leaving her quite vexed and sitting on the counter.

God, how she hated him sometimes. She rolled her eyes as if she'd invented the gesture. _Two can play this game._

"Fuck the symphony, Hannibal," she remained seated on the counter; legs spread, and turned her head in side profile toward him.

He paused in the doorway and made a 'tsk tsk' chuckling sound. "Clarice, such unwarranted vulgarity..." He winked, and smiled the way a cat would at a mouse in its paw. Undaunted, she continued.

"I would much rather continue what we started. Here. Now." She glared at him with her best seduction eyes, lips parted, skin flushed from their previous interlude.

He just kept smiling. He leaned against the doorway and crossed his arms, never breaking eye contact. He did _so_ enjoy witnessing her in such a flustered state. "Now that's _very_ interesting Clarice, and thank you for so freely sharing what it is _you_ want. But as I recall, just moments ago you were asking what you could do to make things right— presumably, what you could do for _me,_ hmm?"

She stared at him seductively, nodding her head once in agreement.

"Good." He quipped. "Then what you can do, Clarice, is go upstairs and get ready for this evening." He winked at her just then as he turned to walk out of the room.

"Oh and Clarice… wear the blue dress. You look positively ravishing in it."

If charm could kill. She sat on the counter dumbfounded. _What the fuck just happened?_ He was fucking with her, that much was certain, but there was something else, just hidden… something… in the works. She didn't know what exactly, but she knew him. She sighed for what seemed the hundredth time—this was going to be a long night indeed.

* * *

 ** _Author's Note:_** The idea for Clarice's run-in with Jonathon Cade at the metro was inspired by an old Washington Post article, "Pearls Before Breakfast". The character 'Jonathon Cade' is fictional and is not intended to represent any real-life person.


	2. Chapter 2

From the study where he retired to finish preparations, Dr. Lecter chuckled to himself as he heard the distant sound of dishes clanking from the force of her fists slamming on the bar. He was not entirely unaffected by their tryst earlier—his pants felt more constricted at the moment, but he would easily restore control. _All good things to those who wait._ He had preparations to attend to after all. Always one to indulge his whims, Hannibal was elated at the turn of events as the possibilities unfolded.

In truth he did not care as to whether or not Clarice had a past sexual relationship with Jonathon Cade. He was more than secure in his ability to satisfy her, again and again, in new and inventive ways. _Inventive. Hmm._ No, what had angered him was her reluctance to be open with him on the subject. Coyness was an unusual trait for her, undesirable, and he would see to it that it would be remedied. He would punish her, he decided, but it would be one they would mutually enjoy. He smiled, enjoying the game in motion _._

His first action was to phone the theater and exchange his center stage floor seats for a private box. One might imagine this would engender quite a bit of difficulty given how close to show time it was, but Dr. Lecter was a man of great means and persuasion in equal measure, and was able to secure the private box for tonight's performance. Now to look up the set list…

Clarice went through the motions of getting ready—her mind calculating, analyzing, trying to predict his method of operation. She would not come on to him again, she decided. No, she would make him come to her, but on her terms. She may be on a course of his choosing but damned if she's going to give him everything. He wanted the blue, she chose the red. _Fits my mood better anyway._

One final glance in the full-length mirror and, satisfied with the result, she exited the room. She debated on being a few minutes late intentionally but decided against it. _Let's not be petty_. She descended the stairs to find Hannibal waiting for her in black tie. He held out his hand and as she placed hers in his, brought it to his lips, kissing her hand slowly, breathing her in.

"I see you decided not to go with my recommendation, never the less you look stunning." He winked. In that moment she saw that he indeed had a red handkerchief, nearly the exact shade of her dress, no less, tucked into his suit pocket.

 _Goddamnit. Played right into it._ A darkening of her eyes, a minor wrinkle of the forehead and it was gone. She was determined not to allow him the pleasure of getting under her skin—he was already having too much fun as it was. She kissed him chastely on the cheek "Glad you like it. Shall we?" And headed for the door.

* * *

The venue was packed. All the socialites and debutantes—the proverbial 'who's who' of the city gathered for opening night. Silently she was pleased they had not arrived sooner. Dr. Lecter, ever the social butterfly, would normally have traversed the scene, taking in the latest gossip, etc. But as luck would have it, they had just enough time to retrieve champagne and locate their private box before curtain call.

Their box was ornate, secluded, featuring crimson tapestry with gold inlet adorning the walls. The two high-backed seats adjourned with two small tables on either end, and a chaise lounge behind. He smiled and kissed her hand once more, guiding her to her seat as the orchestra began warming up.

The first set was mesmerizing—surging and powerful at times, delicate and ephemeral at others. As soon as the music began, all thoughts from before vanished and she allowed herself to be lost in the ebbs and flows of the music. She looked to find Hannibal's hand caressing her thigh and was unsure of how long he had placed it there, so taken as she was by the performance. Jonathon was centered in the spotlight, playing with as much passion and focus as she remembered from what felt like ages ago, so far removed as she was from her past life. She smiled to herself—life had a funny way of coming full circle, mixing past and present in unexpected ways.

While Clarice watched the performance, Hannibal had watched Clarice, from the corner of his eye, noticing her breathing changes and emotion as she followed the musical progression. She was beautiful when lost unto herself. The music was extraordinarily good, he had to admit, but something rankled. He was surprised to find his thoughts drifting to the man who had once possessed his Clarice. The one whose hands commanded such mastery over his instrument, could they have achieved such mastery over her body as well?

He felt such a primal need to have her now, to assert his dominance, to possess her fully. He had begun caressing her thigh involuntarily, he realized. Hannibal Lecter had surprised himself—not one to ruminate on jealousy, to think that she had such an affect on him was both pleasing and frightening. And she was his. She grasped his hand and held his thumb as the first act came to an end. The intermission lights came on as Dr. Lecter turned to his lovely companion. "Would you care for more champagne?" Returning from her reverie, Clarice smiled. "Sure."

They descended the stairs, Dr. Lecter, ever for keeping up appearances, made the rounds, a few exchanges with those of status as was customary, his hand at the small of her back as they glided in and out of social circles. She found there was no reason to worry, so she didn't. She was radiant, his Clarice, and he could not help but take prides in her transformation. Had it been almost three years already? _My how time flies._

As if on cue, the intermission bell sounded. Glasses replenished, they leisurely made their way through the throng and to their private box as the house lights lowered. Clarice proceeded to walk to her seat when a hand caught her wrist, pulling her back to him. A single light source illuminated the exalted soloist as the orchestra began a piece, its haunting melody in stark contrast to its brightness. Enveloped in the shadows of anonymity, Dr. Lecter pulled her to him, his hand moved from her wrist to now guiding her arms to her side, lightly caressing her upper arms. He paused to brush her hair over her shoulder exposing her neck and closed his eyes, inhaling the unique scent that was Clarice Starling. His breath, his lips so close, enough to illicit an involuntary shudder. She could sense his smile, the smug bastard, dually skilled in his ability to both vex and tease her.

"Hannibal—" as she turned her head around, his hand firmly clamped onto her chin and turned her sharply forward facing the orchestra.

"No." His mouth a whisper in her ear. He tilted her chin up, her head slightly back as his lips brushed against her jawline, beginning a slow trail of kisses along her neck to the apex of her clavicle.

With herculean effort, she allowed only the slightest moan to escape in stark defiance to her next words. "Hannibal we can't—not here. People will see us. The orchestra—"

He ignored her, his tongue now tracing the invisible path of kisses. "I assure you I very well can." His tongue continued its journey to her jawline. "And I will."

Another moan escaped her, more guttural than the last, as she tilted her head back further to rest against his shoulder. It was not like Hannibal to engage her in such a public setting though undeniably exhilarating. She knew Hannibal would never allow her to be truly exposed; he would not have initiated if there were any doubts to their privacy. The sound of the violin—one violin in particular—broke her from the spell of his ministrations. Jonathon. That's what this was about wasn't it?

His hands moved to her hips as he pulled her closer, his erection pressing firmly against her buttocks. And she saw the intent behind his actions—this was to be about control, possession, and she would indulge him. But not too eagerly, if she could help it. It wouldn't do to throw the game just yet.

"Mmm." She undulated ever so slightly against him. "So eager, Doctor? I don't recall you being this eager in the kitchen earlier."

He growled in response. His hands were caressing her breasts through the silk of her dress, her nipples hard against his touch. He slid the strap of her dress down, exposing one of her breast to the open air, circling his thumb over her. The effect was electric, but no need to stroke his ego even further.

"Perhaps I've lost interest," a lie so blatant it was almost laughable.

" _Have you now?_ " He said in mock surprise, as he slide his hands under her dress over her thighs gripping, massaging her buttocks, then over the thin lace of her thong—her legs parting, betraying her will as he stroked her center through the lace. Her eyes closed, her breathing heavy, his breath hot on her neck, the rise and fall of her breasts, her scent pure lust. He then slid her panties to the side, running his fingers along her folds, feeling her slickness, so wet, so ready for him.

"No, no I don't think you've lost interest _at all_." He purred as he continued stroking her slowly, maddeningly.

Her hands gripped the back of the chaise lounge; moans she no longer cared to hide escaping her throat. The rise and fall of her breasts in the ambient light, erotic beyond measure, and the pulsating of his own organ left him very nearly at the edge of his control.

"Your body admits your defeat, my dear," the sound of a belt buckle, the rustle of fabric. "And while perhaps I shall accept _mine_ lying down at a later time," a quick movement as he ripped her panties away, his length sliding along her wetness, teasing her opening, "you will accept yours _here, now_. Standing up."

And with that he thrust into her so hard, so deep causing her knees to buckle as she gripped the chaise lounge to the extent her knuckles turned white. He bit down on her shoulder; pain mixed with pleasure as he entered her fully. She was his—she belonged to him. He withdrew to almost the tip and back in with long, slow, deep thrusts, matching the tempo of the music.

"Hannibal," his name a plea on her lips as her body begged him to increase the tempo, but his hands firmly held her hips, preventing her from rocking into him, increasing their pace. He wanted control. Absolute control, though his own was beginning to unravel at the seams.

The orchestra was building to a crescendo, the vibration of the strings in unison as one, the pulsating at his temple as he thrust into her harder, faster—andante, vivace, _prestissimo_. Clarice came hard, shaking. The nails of one hand digging into the lounge, the other his shoulder. Her vocalizations, his name, drowned out by the climax of the music. Her orgasm, feeling the contractions of her around him pushed him over the edge, and he came— gripping her hips tightly, thrusting deeply as he spilled his seed within her.

Her name, from his lips was lost not to the music, but to _thunderous applause_ as both he and the orchestra finished to standing ovation. He remained inside her throughout the applause; she could feel his involuntary spasms post-orgasm, just as she could feel his smile as he kissed the bite mark on her shoulder, his arms encircling her waist.

"Son of a bitch. You planned this didn't you." She turned her head to see a _very_ self-satisfied Hannibal Lecter, grinning ear to ear like the Cheshire cat, a low chuckle vibrating against her back.

"You—" He lunged in to capture her mouth with his in a passionate kiss that left her breathless. He cocked an eyebrow, "Would you expect anything less?" In truth, she could not. This was Hannibal Lecter, the man she had chosen. Her man. This was her life, full of adventure and passion and amusement, and—love. He would give her all this and more, and she would return in kind. She could never tire of him—of that she was certain. She smiled and kissed him playfully.

"We should… compose ourselves before the house lights come up, don't you think?"

She was of course right, though he was reluctant to separate from her. "If you insist my dear."

And compose they did, aglow among the drove of patrons as they exited the symphony hall into the cool night air and then into the seclusion of the Mercedes-Benz parked outside.

"Shall we stop for a bite to eat on the way home?"

"No." Staring out the window at the lights of the city, she turned to him, her eyes ablaze. "I'm sure we can find something— _satisfying_ —at home, wouldn't you agree?"

He laughed as he shifted the Mercedes into drive and turned toward home. Satisfying indeed.

* * *

 ** _Author's Note:_** Thank you all for reading. If you enjoyed my story, please take the time to review. After all, the night is young— _who knows_ what will happen when Hannibal and Clarice return home? Could it be that reader enthusiasm has the power to inspire another chapter? Review to find out. Constructive criticism is always welcome and appreciated… don't be shy.


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